I wrote yesterday about being at the bottom of the well and finally realising why I'm so miserable. With acknowledgment came a measure of energy and I immediately turned that to good use with some cleaning. And discovered that the key to successfully decluttering your life is to dial your care factor down to about zero and your apathy up into the extreme range.
Generally I'm a thrifty girl and I hate waste. I still darn my socks, take in clothes that are too big and generally repair before I replace. Unfortunately my thriftiness goes a little too far sometimes (like hanging onto my maternity pants for mowing the lawn and just clipping all the excess wastage together so they stay up) and as I put away the washing last night I realised that I've reached an intersection where changes must be made and a new direction sought.
Because no girl who struggles to get out of bed in the morning is ever going to win that war if she has to put on underwear that's too big for her or a bra where the underwire is sticking out. And thus commenced an epic purge. Underwear that's too big. Gone. Bras that need any kind of repair - turfed. Jeans with rips, ruined zippers, etc...binned. Then I went further. All slacks for work - tossed*. Any clothes I've ever been dubious about, out. Unless I feel super comfortable or like a million bucks when I wear it, see ya later alligator.
Now I feel a shopping trip coming on...
* I always feel better in a skirt when I'm at work. Charles perked up at this one and tried to get me to toss all my jeans and cargos so I never wear pants of any kind again but the stars were, unfortunately, not aligned in his favour.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Greetings from the Bottom of the Well
It's been a long time since my last blog post and that's because I've been at the bottom of the well. I've written before about my husband's depression. I wrote about how much better he was doing. There we were, sailing along blissfully for the first time in three years. I was remembering why I'd fallen in love and married him in the first place and things were good. Really, really good.
And then, almost overnight (in my eyes at least), it all went horribly pear-shaped when a back injury he suffered two years ago exploded with the fire of a thousand suns. Suddenly he couldn't walk without a cane, had to drive an automatic and was back to spending all day in bed and snapping at me all the time. I did my best, I really did. But it felt like I was circling the drain and then suddenly I was going under for the third time and the light was winking out above me. Clinically depressed for the first time in over ten years. Huh.
Generally most things in my life have a 24 hour limit. I can't do misery for long. But this time it's well and truly got me. I start my day pep-talking myself out of bed, drag myself around while I get the kids ready, slog through work, collect kids, make dinner, feed them dinner, get them ready for bed, put them in bed, attempt to clean and crawl back into bed. I do most of it alone and occasionally I do it with Charles whose pain has given him a terrible knack for making everything that comes out of his mouth sound derisive and deprecating. The whole shebang is like water on sandstone and I can feel myself becoming permanently worn down, the sharper of my features dulled until I don't even look human anymore.
Since I constantly bang on about accepting limitations and not being stupid when it comes to depression, I finally went to the doctor, 'fessed up to my misery and self-destructive fantasies and unsurprisingly was put on medication. The meds make me too nauseous to eat but haven't seemed to do a lot for my mood. I figure their theory is to make me anorexic until I have the body of a supermodel and BINGO, almost instant happiness along with $$$ modelling contract. The one other thing the meds did was remove any care factor I had about most other people, their feelings and opinions of me. The filter on my mouth is completely gone. When people ask me how I am I usually just go with, "pretty fucking crap actually". And I don't bother asking how they are because I don't care anymore.
Kat pointed out to me recently that I need to start showing more restraint because once I start coming out of this thing and caring again, I am going to be horrified by the things I've said and done. I lay awake almost all night mulling this one over, trying to imagine how I would have done things differently, if I wasn't currently ruled by apathy and a total disinterest in what anyone thinks of me. But since I don't care, I couldn't conceive of what caring might be like and this led to an internal philosophical battle along the lines of "do we exist or do we just think we exist". In the end I had to conclude that I lack the capacity to even pretend I care because I've forgotten why I used to care about things like other people who are not my family and who treat me like crap anyway. Infuriatingly it was almost five in the morning by the time I realised this and way too late to try and sleep*. The only positive thing I concluded was that philosophy ought to be crossed off the list of things I spend time and thought on because it is largely useless and lacks practical application.
Anyway today is Boxing Day and I spent it with my cousins, who I do actually care about. In fact, I care enough that despite not wanting to even get out of bed, I packed my kids in the car, drove to Goulburn and pretended that I'm okay. But at a certain point I had to go inside and get away from the people and the talking because maintaining that facade was killing me. And there my cousin Wendy found me and when she asked I told her everything, because all the energy I had had already been taken up pretending I was okay enough to socialise with more than one person for longer than thirty minutes.
Wendy has always had a knack of asking the right questions at the right time and as she asked me about what was going on and why, I suddenly realised why I'm at the bottom of the well and why I haven't been able to pull myself out of this.
For three years I pulled my mouth up into a smile every day, bullied my husband out of bed, pretended that everything was fine so my kids wouldn't notice how broken we were, pushed my way through the day, pulling everyone along behind me. I cried often, raged at the world a lot but I never gave up, I never left and I never stopped hoping that my husband would come back to me and love me again the way he did before that black cloud came down and took away the sun. And when we finally managed to fight our way back into the light all we got was a lousy couple of months before this next God-damn catastrophe landed.
In the end, it didn't matter how strong I was or how hard I tried because something beyond my control landed us back at square one anyway. And the most terrifying thing of all about that is what if we can't pull through this one. What if the surgery next month doesn't work and it's like this forever? What if it's worse? What if something else happens to us that is worse than this? These are not words you're supposed to say out loud when something like this happens but I have to because the fear of it is growing while I pretend it's not there and it's slowly killing me from the inside.
Somehow admitting to myself that maybe it won't all get better made my fear of the future shrink. I have survived. I have come this far. I have no faith in myself but that's completely unwarranted. I am strong and I am capable. I've held it together this long and there's no reason I can't keep holding it together. God and Zoloft willing we will make it through this next challenge, just as we've made it through the challenges so far. We have an amazing family who have stepped in to help us now that we're down. We have friends that care enough to check on us and help us when they can**. There are a thousand different ways that this could be worse but it isn't. It's not brilliant, but it is okay and a slight attitude adjustment will make it even better.
No matter what, I'll keep being me and I like myself better when I'm happy. That thought is like a life jacket I've strapped around myself to try and rise back up to the light and the air where I'll be able to breathe again.
* Actually I think the reality is that my brain realised I was stuck in a circuitous line of thinking I had no hope of ever escaping, short-circuited and my last focused thought was I like purple! It's SO PRETTY!!
** And ignore my filterless mouth.
And then, almost overnight (in my eyes at least), it all went horribly pear-shaped when a back injury he suffered two years ago exploded with the fire of a thousand suns. Suddenly he couldn't walk without a cane, had to drive an automatic and was back to spending all day in bed and snapping at me all the time. I did my best, I really did. But it felt like I was circling the drain and then suddenly I was going under for the third time and the light was winking out above me. Clinically depressed for the first time in over ten years. Huh.
Generally most things in my life have a 24 hour limit. I can't do misery for long. But this time it's well and truly got me. I start my day pep-talking myself out of bed, drag myself around while I get the kids ready, slog through work, collect kids, make dinner, feed them dinner, get them ready for bed, put them in bed, attempt to clean and crawl back into bed. I do most of it alone and occasionally I do it with Charles whose pain has given him a terrible knack for making everything that comes out of his mouth sound derisive and deprecating. The whole shebang is like water on sandstone and I can feel myself becoming permanently worn down, the sharper of my features dulled until I don't even look human anymore.
Since I constantly bang on about accepting limitations and not being stupid when it comes to depression, I finally went to the doctor, 'fessed up to my misery and self-destructive fantasies and unsurprisingly was put on medication. The meds make me too nauseous to eat but haven't seemed to do a lot for my mood. I figure their theory is to make me anorexic until I have the body of a supermodel and BINGO, almost instant happiness along with $$$ modelling contract. The one other thing the meds did was remove any care factor I had about most other people, their feelings and opinions of me. The filter on my mouth is completely gone. When people ask me how I am I usually just go with, "pretty fucking crap actually". And I don't bother asking how they are because I don't care anymore.
Kat pointed out to me recently that I need to start showing more restraint because once I start coming out of this thing and caring again, I am going to be horrified by the things I've said and done. I lay awake almost all night mulling this one over, trying to imagine how I would have done things differently, if I wasn't currently ruled by apathy and a total disinterest in what anyone thinks of me. But since I don't care, I couldn't conceive of what caring might be like and this led to an internal philosophical battle along the lines of "do we exist or do we just think we exist". In the end I had to conclude that I lack the capacity to even pretend I care because I've forgotten why I used to care about things like other people who are not my family and who treat me like crap anyway. Infuriatingly it was almost five in the morning by the time I realised this and way too late to try and sleep*. The only positive thing I concluded was that philosophy ought to be crossed off the list of things I spend time and thought on because it is largely useless and lacks practical application.
Anyway today is Boxing Day and I spent it with my cousins, who I do actually care about. In fact, I care enough that despite not wanting to even get out of bed, I packed my kids in the car, drove to Goulburn and pretended that I'm okay. But at a certain point I had to go inside and get away from the people and the talking because maintaining that facade was killing me. And there my cousin Wendy found me and when she asked I told her everything, because all the energy I had had already been taken up pretending I was okay enough to socialise with more than one person for longer than thirty minutes.
Wendy has always had a knack of asking the right questions at the right time and as she asked me about what was going on and why, I suddenly realised why I'm at the bottom of the well and why I haven't been able to pull myself out of this.
For three years I pulled my mouth up into a smile every day, bullied my husband out of bed, pretended that everything was fine so my kids wouldn't notice how broken we were, pushed my way through the day, pulling everyone along behind me. I cried often, raged at the world a lot but I never gave up, I never left and I never stopped hoping that my husband would come back to me and love me again the way he did before that black cloud came down and took away the sun. And when we finally managed to fight our way back into the light all we got was a lousy couple of months before this next God-damn catastrophe landed.
In the end, it didn't matter how strong I was or how hard I tried because something beyond my control landed us back at square one anyway. And the most terrifying thing of all about that is what if we can't pull through this one. What if the surgery next month doesn't work and it's like this forever? What if it's worse? What if something else happens to us that is worse than this? These are not words you're supposed to say out loud when something like this happens but I have to because the fear of it is growing while I pretend it's not there and it's slowly killing me from the inside.
Somehow admitting to myself that maybe it won't all get better made my fear of the future shrink. I have survived. I have come this far. I have no faith in myself but that's completely unwarranted. I am strong and I am capable. I've held it together this long and there's no reason I can't keep holding it together. God and Zoloft willing we will make it through this next challenge, just as we've made it through the challenges so far. We have an amazing family who have stepped in to help us now that we're down. We have friends that care enough to check on us and help us when they can**. There are a thousand different ways that this could be worse but it isn't. It's not brilliant, but it is okay and a slight attitude adjustment will make it even better.
No matter what, I'll keep being me and I like myself better when I'm happy. That thought is like a life jacket I've strapped around myself to try and rise back up to the light and the air where I'll be able to breathe again.
* Actually I think the reality is that my brain realised I was stuck in a circuitous line of thinking I had no hope of ever escaping, short-circuited and my last focused thought was I like purple! It's SO PRETTY!!
** And ignore my filterless mouth.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Why not indeed?
Spring rain is my favourite kind of weather. Warm air, cool rain and everything bright green around you. Today on the way home from work it was raining that gentle spring rain I love so much and the side of the road was too green to resist. So I pulled over, ripped my shoes off, got out of the car and stood beside my car, arms wide and face to the sky. After a moment I came back to myself and realised the looks on the faces of the people passing by. Concern, disgust, dismissal.
Is she crazy?
Yes. It would be far more sensible to drive my car with the windows up, the air-conditioning blasting away, worrying about what's for dinner and stressing over the trials of the day I'm sure. After five minutes of indulgence I reluctantly got back in the car and drove on to the childcare centre to pick James up.
As I brought him outside his body tensed and he curled into me.
"Oh no!" he cried, "Raining! All wet!"
"Yes, all wet, but it's okay," I told him.
I stopped to look down into his precious little face, screwed up with dismay and it hit me then what all the rushing in my life will one day cost my children. All too soon my son will be one of those people rushing home in a Conformodore, the beautiful Spring rain not a life-giving pleasure to be enjoyed but a nuisance to be cursed. I sat him down right there on the steps of the centre and ripped his shoes and socks off, stuffing them into my pockets.
"Yes, it's raining," I told him, "Which means we can wear no shoes and splash. You have no idea how good that will feel on your feet. Come on, let's do it."
One dubious look was all I got and then I seized his hand and we ran out into the rain, heading straight for the gutter where the water was rushing, both of us giggling. We kicked the leaves, we jumped and then we just stood there and let the water run over our toes. As we played a father with three small children who had parked behind me came out, hurrying his brood until they saw us and collectively stopped to stare. I froze, not sure what to say while he looked at me blankly and James continued to squeal and splash. Then his oldest curled her hand into his and tugged.
"Can we do that Daddy?" she asked softly and my eyes met his. For a long moment we just looked at each other and then I smiled and shrugged.
"Why not?"
"Why not indeed," he said slowly and then they too were pulling their shoes and socks off and before long we were all splashing and laughing. I left five minutes later when a pair of teenagers walking home from the bus joined in. By the time we got home I'd forgotten anything else that happened to me today.
Now turn the screen off. Put down whatever you're doing. Go dance in the rain.
Is she crazy?
Yes. It would be far more sensible to drive my car with the windows up, the air-conditioning blasting away, worrying about what's for dinner and stressing over the trials of the day I'm sure. After five minutes of indulgence I reluctantly got back in the car and drove on to the childcare centre to pick James up.
As I brought him outside his body tensed and he curled into me.
"Oh no!" he cried, "Raining! All wet!"
"Yes, all wet, but it's okay," I told him.
I stopped to look down into his precious little face, screwed up with dismay and it hit me then what all the rushing in my life will one day cost my children. All too soon my son will be one of those people rushing home in a Conformodore, the beautiful Spring rain not a life-giving pleasure to be enjoyed but a nuisance to be cursed. I sat him down right there on the steps of the centre and ripped his shoes and socks off, stuffing them into my pockets.
"Yes, it's raining," I told him, "Which means we can wear no shoes and splash. You have no idea how good that will feel on your feet. Come on, let's do it."
One dubious look was all I got and then I seized his hand and we ran out into the rain, heading straight for the gutter where the water was rushing, both of us giggling. We kicked the leaves, we jumped and then we just stood there and let the water run over our toes. As we played a father with three small children who had parked behind me came out, hurrying his brood until they saw us and collectively stopped to stare. I froze, not sure what to say while he looked at me blankly and James continued to squeal and splash. Then his oldest curled her hand into his and tugged.
"Can we do that Daddy?" she asked softly and my eyes met his. For a long moment we just looked at each other and then I smiled and shrugged.
"Why not?"
"Why not indeed," he said slowly and then they too were pulling their shoes and socks off and before long we were all splashing and laughing. I left five minutes later when a pair of teenagers walking home from the bus joined in. By the time we got home I'd forgotten anything else that happened to me today.
Now turn the screen off. Put down whatever you're doing. Go dance in the rain.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Time To Step In!
As a parent you have to learn to filter out a lot of the background noises made by your kids or they will drive you mad. If you own more than one child there's almost constant bickering, arguing over the remote and squeals of outrage and pain when things aren't going your way. After a while you get pretty darn good at identifying the exact pitch and frequency that heralds a situation worthy of parental intervention.
Tonight I could hear them scuffling behind me while I was on the computer and James was making a few half-hearted whinges along the lines of "Noooo...nooo...." but they were delivered largely in a whiny, resigned voice so I skipped over them. What got my attention was a very crisp and deliberate, "No piggies!" that was delivered in a tone I can only call "intent to cause grievous bodily harm" and I immediately turned to find that he'd snagged both his sister's feet and was about to deliver a very worthy chomp. The instant he knew I was watching it suddenly became a "see how cute I am cuddling my sister's feet" Kodak moment. Busted.
Tonight I could hear them scuffling behind me while I was on the computer and James was making a few half-hearted whinges along the lines of "Noooo...nooo...." but they were delivered largely in a whiny, resigned voice so I skipped over them. What got my attention was a very crisp and deliberate, "No piggies!" that was delivered in a tone I can only call "intent to cause grievous bodily harm" and I immediately turned to find that he'd snagged both his sister's feet and was about to deliver a very worthy chomp. The instant he knew I was watching it suddenly became a "see how cute I am cuddling my sister's feet" Kodak moment. Busted.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Ten Years Ago Tonight
Ten years and three days ago I got extraordinarily drunk with my housemate Jules and allowed myself to get talked into putting up a personal profile on the Internet. Having been in a fairly interesting relationship until only a month or two prior, I was by no means in a well-adjusted ready-to-date place. Fortunately I had alcohol to straighten that kind of thinking out. Alcohol and pot. Anyway, since that previous relationship had been flavoured with a whole rainbow of dysfunction, my head space had angled itself towards "I'm sick of the bullshit, I just want to have a good time and, by the way, you'd better like me for who I am because there's not a chance I'll be changing for you". I was more sure of what I didn't want than what I did want and my good friends alcohol and pot were there to make sure things went my way.
Something about my own special brand of honesty spoke to the hearts of many, many men because when I woke up the next morning I had emails from 29 of them referring to my awesome profile. A mad scramble revealed my profile in all its glory. In less than 24 hours I had become the most popular profile on the whole site. To my lasting shame the cold light of day revealed that I'd gone for drunken honesty gold. Sample sentences include this; "If you don't like dogs, please don't write to me. I have a dog. She was here first." I quickly took my profile down and then started sheepishly writing to my admirers.
Out of those 29 men the majority of responses I sent were something along the lines of, "I'm sure you're lovely and I apologise for wasting your time and the $6 you paid for my email address, but this was a very drunken mistake." In my defence, the majority of them had sent me emails that went something like this, "you sound like da bom, lets get together and Xplod" or "i wish there were more chicks like you and not so many bitches want to meet for a coffee?" I admit I'd been off the dating scene since...well...since I was about fourteen, but to me, writing to propose a date with someone who may become your partner should involve the use of grammar and punctuation. I know. I'm a snob like that. Try to remember I'd spent a long time with the wrong people trying to make it right. I was done. Grammar and punctuation were part of my new minimum.
Anyways out of the 29 one letter stood out. Just over a page long this guy knew how to sell himself. He told me about himself, his family, his job and his life philosophy. And every time he got a little too over the top he'd poke fun at himself. I wrote to him, he wrote to me and it wasn't long before I was telling him things I hadn't told anybody. I consoled myself with the fact that it was all anonymous. In the background my Dad countered all of my praise of this man with negativity. Samples:
Me: He sounds really mature.
Dad: That's because he's older than me and writing to vulnerable young women to get his jollies. You better not send him any naked photos. Have you sent him naked photos?
Me: He's really sensitive and in touch with his feelings.
Dad: That's because he's a guy preparing himself for transgender realignment and he needs to get in touch with how women really think. You didn't send him any naked photos did you?
Me: I really like him and he says he really likes me.
Dad: That's how serial killers attract prey. DID YOU SEND HIM NAKED PHOTOS?
By the second day it felt like I'd known him months and I sent him my phone number. He called almost immediately and we talked for hours. The day after that he asked me out on a date and I accepted. With two hours until date time I made an emergency appointment with my beautician and had enough hair removed to recreate my own small marsupial. Then I endured my father and brother "helping" me choose an outfit* and learned that apparently there are rules about first dates that I'd never had to be told because I'd never really been single. Samples;
If he gets drunk, you don't see him again.
If he doesn't pay for dinner, you don't see him again.
If he tries to kiss you, you don't see him again.
If he wants to come home with you, you don't see him again.
Oh by the way if you sleep with him on the first date he'll think you're a slut and you won't see him again.
Eventually they were evicted because they were making me too nervous and I drove to the restaurant early so I wouldn't have to deal with them if they came back. I wandered around for a bit around the restaurant and watched as a series of ridiculously overweight men with beards and bellies hanging out the bottom of unwashed T-shirts went into the place I was meant to be meeting him**. Eventually I went in, sat down, and waited.
Finally a tall, dark man in dark clothes with the most enormous beard I'd seen in quite some time came in and was directed to my table. "Closely-cropped" my well-waxed derriere. I remember that he had the kindest, warmest eyes I'd ever seen and his smile was gentle. I'd already decided before I got to the restaurant that if he was half as good as he seemed to be, I was going to nail him to the wall so he couldn't get away. Turns out he was twice as good as he'd said he was and he didn't break any of the unspoken "first-date" rules. He was a keeper.
A fortnight later when he brought me a picnic lunch while I worked on building my pergola I asked him to marry me. A few months later he got down on his knee with a ring and made it official. I found out later that he'd asked my Dad and my brother for my hand in marriage - because he knew by then that Jase's approval was just as important as my Dad's and I would not marry a man they didn't like. They both gave their blessing willingly.
I look back now and I still remember what it felt like to become so intimate so quickly. Charles and I never did slow down - we went quickly from engaged to married to children. It was intoxicating, giddy and the whole time I kept waiting for the bad to come. Any moment now you'll turn into a psycho. I didn't believe it could be so easy. But that's what it's like when you find the person you're meant to be with. You fall into step beside them and discover all the things that make you right for each other long after you've actually made the commitment to be together.
It's ten years to the day since that first night when we met in a restaurant. If you asked me what I've been doing consistently for ten years my first response would not be "loving Charles" it would be something like "um...breathing." It doesn't feel like ten years. It feels like the blink of an eye. *blink* Enormous white dress. *blink* Birthing Charlotte and watching Charles make her breathe. *blink* First house. *blink* Now James. *blink* Second house. *blink* Ten years gone. Are you sure we haven't been together forever because I forget what it was like to ever live without you.
*Wear a skirt. But not a short skirt. We want him to remember you're a woman but we don't want him to think he can have sex with you. Yet. Ever. Whatever.
** He'd said he was a bit overweight with a closely cropped beard.
Something about my own special brand of honesty spoke to the hearts of many, many men because when I woke up the next morning I had emails from 29 of them referring to my awesome profile. A mad scramble revealed my profile in all its glory. In less than 24 hours I had become the most popular profile on the whole site. To my lasting shame the cold light of day revealed that I'd gone for drunken honesty gold. Sample sentences include this; "If you don't like dogs, please don't write to me. I have a dog. She was here first." I quickly took my profile down and then started sheepishly writing to my admirers.
Out of those 29 men the majority of responses I sent were something along the lines of, "I'm sure you're lovely and I apologise for wasting your time and the $6 you paid for my email address, but this was a very drunken mistake." In my defence, the majority of them had sent me emails that went something like this, "you sound like da bom, lets get together and Xplod" or "i wish there were more chicks like you and not so many bitches want to meet for a coffee?" I admit I'd been off the dating scene since...well...since I was about fourteen, but to me, writing to propose a date with someone who may become your partner should involve the use of grammar and punctuation. I know. I'm a snob like that. Try to remember I'd spent a long time with the wrong people trying to make it right. I was done. Grammar and punctuation were part of my new minimum.
Anyways out of the 29 one letter stood out. Just over a page long this guy knew how to sell himself. He told me about himself, his family, his job and his life philosophy. And every time he got a little too over the top he'd poke fun at himself. I wrote to him, he wrote to me and it wasn't long before I was telling him things I hadn't told anybody. I consoled myself with the fact that it was all anonymous. In the background my Dad countered all of my praise of this man with negativity. Samples:
Me: He sounds really mature.
Dad: That's because he's older than me and writing to vulnerable young women to get his jollies. You better not send him any naked photos. Have you sent him naked photos?
Me: He's really sensitive and in touch with his feelings.
Dad: That's because he's a guy preparing himself for transgender realignment and he needs to get in touch with how women really think. You didn't send him any naked photos did you?
Me: I really like him and he says he really likes me.
Dad: That's how serial killers attract prey. DID YOU SEND HIM NAKED PHOTOS?
By the second day it felt like I'd known him months and I sent him my phone number. He called almost immediately and we talked for hours. The day after that he asked me out on a date and I accepted. With two hours until date time I made an emergency appointment with my beautician and had enough hair removed to recreate my own small marsupial. Then I endured my father and brother "helping" me choose an outfit* and learned that apparently there are rules about first dates that I'd never had to be told because I'd never really been single. Samples;
If he gets drunk, you don't see him again.
If he doesn't pay for dinner, you don't see him again.
If he tries to kiss you, you don't see him again.
If he wants to come home with you, you don't see him again.
Oh by the way if you sleep with him on the first date he'll think you're a slut and you won't see him again.
Eventually they were evicted because they were making me too nervous and I drove to the restaurant early so I wouldn't have to deal with them if they came back. I wandered around for a bit around the restaurant and watched as a series of ridiculously overweight men with beards and bellies hanging out the bottom of unwashed T-shirts went into the place I was meant to be meeting him**. Eventually I went in, sat down, and waited.
Finally a tall, dark man in dark clothes with the most enormous beard I'd seen in quite some time came in and was directed to my table. "Closely-cropped" my well-waxed derriere. I remember that he had the kindest, warmest eyes I'd ever seen and his smile was gentle. I'd already decided before I got to the restaurant that if he was half as good as he seemed to be, I was going to nail him to the wall so he couldn't get away. Turns out he was twice as good as he'd said he was and he didn't break any of the unspoken "first-date" rules. He was a keeper.
A fortnight later when he brought me a picnic lunch while I worked on building my pergola I asked him to marry me. A few months later he got down on his knee with a ring and made it official. I found out later that he'd asked my Dad and my brother for my hand in marriage - because he knew by then that Jase's approval was just as important as my Dad's and I would not marry a man they didn't like. They both gave their blessing willingly.
I look back now and I still remember what it felt like to become so intimate so quickly. Charles and I never did slow down - we went quickly from engaged to married to children. It was intoxicating, giddy and the whole time I kept waiting for the bad to come. Any moment now you'll turn into a psycho. I didn't believe it could be so easy. But that's what it's like when you find the person you're meant to be with. You fall into step beside them and discover all the things that make you right for each other long after you've actually made the commitment to be together.
It's ten years to the day since that first night when we met in a restaurant. If you asked me what I've been doing consistently for ten years my first response would not be "loving Charles" it would be something like "um...breathing." It doesn't feel like ten years. It feels like the blink of an eye. *blink* Enormous white dress. *blink* Birthing Charlotte and watching Charles make her breathe. *blink* First house. *blink* Now James. *blink* Second house. *blink* Ten years gone. Are you sure we haven't been together forever because I forget what it was like to ever live without you.
*Wear a skirt. But not a short skirt. We want him to remember you're a woman but we don't want him to think he can have sex with you. Yet. Ever. Whatever.
** He'd said he was a bit overweight with a closely cropped beard.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
I'm Never In Photos
Being the one with the flash camera I'm rarely ever in family photos, I'm always the one taking them. Sometimes that bothers me but usually I'm so busy snapping away I don't even notice. But the lack of photos of me with the kids was brought home to me sharply thanks to James' recent obsession with photos of himself. He loves to sit on my lap and order up "Baby James photo", "James and Charlotte photo", "Daddy James photo", etc. He's quite clearly put out that there are no recent Mama James photos.
Then we went away for a family reunion on the weekend. Once again I was designated photographer and I snapped away while people ate, talked and mingled. As the night wore on my poor little man was getting more and more tired. Eventually he sidled over to me and I thought he was going to ask for bed for sure. But instead he turned his pleading eyes up to me and said, "Pwease? Mama James photo pwease?" How can you resist that? So I quickly set the camera, let him climb onto my lap and then extended my arm and hoped for the best. The result was one of the better self-portraits I've ever taken.
The best part about this photo is the reaction it got from James. On the night he just said a triumphant little YEAH. But at home when I put it on the monitor for him he froze, staring at it and then he turned to me, eyes huge with wonder.
"Mama James photo!"
"Yup, Mama James photo. You like it?"
"YEAH! My like it! My like it!"
And then he did the cutest little happy dance, galloping around in a small circle and giggling with glee. When he stopped and I managed to stop laughing I asked him if he wanted me to get him a copy for his bedroom wall.
"YEAH!" he squealed, "Mah bedroom wall! My like it!"
Being the mother of a small boy is to be a movie star in a world without critics.
Then we went away for a family reunion on the weekend. Once again I was designated photographer and I snapped away while people ate, talked and mingled. As the night wore on my poor little man was getting more and more tired. Eventually he sidled over to me and I thought he was going to ask for bed for sure. But instead he turned his pleading eyes up to me and said, "Pwease? Mama James photo pwease?" How can you resist that? So I quickly set the camera, let him climb onto my lap and then extended my arm and hoped for the best. The result was one of the better self-portraits I've ever taken.
The best part about this photo is the reaction it got from James. On the night he just said a triumphant little YEAH. But at home when I put it on the monitor for him he froze, staring at it and then he turned to me, eyes huge with wonder.
"Mama James photo!"
"Yup, Mama James photo. You like it?"
"YEAH! My like it! My like it!"
And then he did the cutest little happy dance, galloping around in a small circle and giggling with glee. When he stopped and I managed to stop laughing I asked him if he wanted me to get him a copy for his bedroom wall.
"YEAH!" he squealed, "Mah bedroom wall! My like it!"
Being the mother of a small boy is to be a movie star in a world without critics.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Secret Shame Artists
I recently had the pleasure of waiting around for an appointment with a friend in an office where a radio was tuned, rather unfortunately, to the ongoing aural assault that is Mix 106.3. Following on from a particularly nasal Kylie number we got what I think has to be the worst offering John Farnham has ever presented to the public, "What About Me?" I hate whining at the best of times but this song is in a league of its own. It's makes me want to beat someone to death while piercing my own ear drums with a knitting needle.
The sheer horror of it fresh after Kylie made me groan out loud in frustration and my companion turned to regard me coolly.
"You're not particularly patient are you?" he asked and I had to explain that waiting I can handle, but waiting to a backdrop of awful music is really not my thing. Then an awful thought occurred to me.
"You're not like a closet Farnham fan or anything are you?"
Now this is a man whose publicly acknowledged preference for music runs to techno and metal. He was even sitting there in a Mastodon T-shirt and Gojira hoody and was clearly deeply unimpressed that I would even ask him such a thing. He stared at me for a second.
"What do you f#$king think?"
Okay, point taken. But what I had been trying to suggest, rather insultingly as it turned out, is that John Farnham might have been a secret shame artist. We all have them. Someone we sing to when no one's around, claiming the CD belongs to a friend or was a gag gift we can't bring ourselves to toss if someone asks us about it. Or even one of those inherited loves from fruit-loop parents. Once I started thinking about it, I couldn't stop. I have so many songs and artists I love purely because of the time and place when I first heard them/came to love them. Here are my secret, and not-so-secret, shame artists;
Europe; First LP (okay, only) I ever got was a compilation called "Smash Hits '87". The only song my brother liked off the whole album was Europe's The Final Countdown and I would have to lift the needle and drop it back at the beginning at least twice every time I played it. Now here we are, 25 years on and it's the only song off that album I even remember. I crank it up every chance I get and remember my mad little bro' dancing like a freak and playing air guitar. It's also worth noting that Europe play right into my fetish for man bands with better hair and more makeup than me. Not to mention the coordinated dance moves, laser lights and explosions. Sad that today's rockers just aren't trying as hard. Of course, there's always 30 Seconds to Mars.
Jimmy Barnes; Okay, I'm not at all ashamed of this one but this one song is such a massive piece of my childhood that I had to include it. We moved to a farm when I was six and lived near a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. One of the only cool things about this town was the blue light disco and the coolest thing about the disco was when Jimmy Barnes Working Class Man came on and every single person would get up to help belt it out. It was the late eighties, early nineties, people had been doing it tough with interest rates and this song spoke to every person in the place. I learned how to head bang at the age of eight to this and Acca Dacca's Thunderstruck and for that, they will always be on my favourites list.
Fleetwood Mac; When I was 13 and just getting into music I had a tendency to play it a little louder than my parents probably would have preferred. We lived in a house where the living room had 12-foot high cathedral ceilings and my Dad had bolted the rather impressive set of speakers from our pretty decent stereo to the ceiling. About two minutes after I'd started belting out Def Leppard on my newly-acquired stereo my father yanked me out to the living room, sat me under one of the speakers and then cranked up Fleetwood Mac's The Chain until every cell of my body jerked to the beat and the windows shook in their panes. If I was going to play music loud, he informed me, it had better be good music and if I was anything like him, it better be at a volume where no one could hear me sing. I still love this song and I still play it at levels that would make most people's ears bleed. I just do it when no one's around to hear.
Creedence: Another one of my father's influences. I simply lack the capacity to play this at low volume. Can't. Be. Done.
Def Leppard; The first album I ever bought on CD was Def Leppard's "The Vault". I love every song on there but in particular "Pour Some Sugar On Me" and "Let's Get Rocked". That last one makes me feel incredibly rebellious and makes me fantasise about going on some sort of vodka-fuelled anarchist rampage armed with spray cans and brass knuckles. Also, check out the dodgy animation. Good times.
Snow: I've got no idea if Snow ever did another song but the phenomenon that was Informer was enough. Almost everyone in high school spent months trying to work out what the hell he was saying so we could copy it. Still haven't got a clue. And what the hell is that accent?
Enigma; Saving the best for last. I discovered Engima when they were onto their second album and the Enigma had been busted. Everyone knew it was Michael Cretu but it didn't make the music any less amazing. I first heard it at the 1995 Pagan Summer Gathering, a camping event I'd been reluctantly dragged to by my hippy parents. That reluctance melted somewhere in the first hour of landing when I quickly discovered that unwashed pagans come hand in hand with alcohol, weed, sex and no concept of anything as mainstream and boring as age limits. My first experience of Enigma was that first evening when The Cross of Changes got played through speakers as tall as me out over the valley at dusk. When I stood before them my body felt like it would be shattered by the beat. It was impossible not to dance and I instantly loved them. I only own the first four albums, as the rest were crap, but I play them to death and both my children were born to the sounds of Enigma (Charlotte to Three and James to The Screen Behind the Mirror).
Tonight was the first night I saw the official video for Return to Innocence (the first Enigma song I ever heard). It does not surprise me that it's beautiful and makes no sense whatsoever. But with unicorns and everything moving backwards it's not hard to remember what it felt like to be 15, stoned to the wide and plugged in to the heart of the universe for the very first time. Wicked.
The sheer horror of it fresh after Kylie made me groan out loud in frustration and my companion turned to regard me coolly.
"You're not particularly patient are you?" he asked and I had to explain that waiting I can handle, but waiting to a backdrop of awful music is really not my thing. Then an awful thought occurred to me.
"You're not like a closet Farnham fan or anything are you?"
Now this is a man whose publicly acknowledged preference for music runs to techno and metal. He was even sitting there in a Mastodon T-shirt and Gojira hoody and was clearly deeply unimpressed that I would even ask him such a thing. He stared at me for a second.
"What do you f#$king think?"
Okay, point taken. But what I had been trying to suggest, rather insultingly as it turned out, is that John Farnham might have been a secret shame artist. We all have them. Someone we sing to when no one's around, claiming the CD belongs to a friend or was a gag gift we can't bring ourselves to toss if someone asks us about it. Or even one of those inherited loves from fruit-loop parents. Once I started thinking about it, I couldn't stop. I have so many songs and artists I love purely because of the time and place when I first heard them/came to love them. Here are my secret, and not-so-secret, shame artists;
Europe; First LP (okay, only) I ever got was a compilation called "Smash Hits '87". The only song my brother liked off the whole album was Europe's The Final Countdown and I would have to lift the needle and drop it back at the beginning at least twice every time I played it. Now here we are, 25 years on and it's the only song off that album I even remember. I crank it up every chance I get and remember my mad little bro' dancing like a freak and playing air guitar. It's also worth noting that Europe play right into my fetish for man bands with better hair and more makeup than me. Not to mention the coordinated dance moves, laser lights and explosions. Sad that today's rockers just aren't trying as hard. Of course, there's always 30 Seconds to Mars.
Jimmy Barnes; Okay, I'm not at all ashamed of this one but this one song is such a massive piece of my childhood that I had to include it. We moved to a farm when I was six and lived near a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. One of the only cool things about this town was the blue light disco and the coolest thing about the disco was when Jimmy Barnes Working Class Man came on and every single person would get up to help belt it out. It was the late eighties, early nineties, people had been doing it tough with interest rates and this song spoke to every person in the place. I learned how to head bang at the age of eight to this and Acca Dacca's Thunderstruck and for that, they will always be on my favourites list.
Fleetwood Mac; When I was 13 and just getting into music I had a tendency to play it a little louder than my parents probably would have preferred. We lived in a house where the living room had 12-foot high cathedral ceilings and my Dad had bolted the rather impressive set of speakers from our pretty decent stereo to the ceiling. About two minutes after I'd started belting out Def Leppard on my newly-acquired stereo my father yanked me out to the living room, sat me under one of the speakers and then cranked up Fleetwood Mac's The Chain until every cell of my body jerked to the beat and the windows shook in their panes. If I was going to play music loud, he informed me, it had better be good music and if I was anything like him, it better be at a volume where no one could hear me sing. I still love this song and I still play it at levels that would make most people's ears bleed. I just do it when no one's around to hear.
Def Leppard; The first album I ever bought on CD was Def Leppard's "The Vault". I love every song on there but in particular "Pour Some Sugar On Me" and "Let's Get Rocked". That last one makes me feel incredibly rebellious and makes me fantasise about going on some sort of vodka-fuelled anarchist rampage armed with spray cans and brass knuckles. Also, check out the dodgy animation. Good times.
Snow: I've got no idea if Snow ever did another song but the phenomenon that was Informer was enough. Almost everyone in high school spent months trying to work out what the hell he was saying so we could copy it. Still haven't got a clue. And what the hell is that accent?
Enigma; Saving the best for last. I discovered Engima when they were onto their second album and the Enigma had been busted. Everyone knew it was Michael Cretu but it didn't make the music any less amazing. I first heard it at the 1995 Pagan Summer Gathering, a camping event I'd been reluctantly dragged to by my hippy parents. That reluctance melted somewhere in the first hour of landing when I quickly discovered that unwashed pagans come hand in hand with alcohol, weed, sex and no concept of anything as mainstream and boring as age limits. My first experience of Enigma was that first evening when The Cross of Changes got played through speakers as tall as me out over the valley at dusk. When I stood before them my body felt like it would be shattered by the beat. It was impossible not to dance and I instantly loved them. I only own the first four albums, as the rest were crap, but I play them to death and both my children were born to the sounds of Enigma (Charlotte to Three and James to The Screen Behind the Mirror).
Tonight was the first night I saw the official video for Return to Innocence (the first Enigma song I ever heard). It does not surprise me that it's beautiful and makes no sense whatsoever. But with unicorns and everything moving backwards it's not hard to remember what it felt like to be 15, stoned to the wide and plugged in to the heart of the universe for the very first time. Wicked.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Spring Clean!
A number of contributing factors have brought me to the point I'm now at. First, we moved house in a rush about two years ago. Second, my husband has had depression for a long time and it's basically been me trying to hold things together domestically for at least two years. Third, we have not had that critical moment where we accept that many of the things we used to do before children just aren't going to be on the agenda for at least another ten years. Finally, we are both former pack rats.
Those are the reasons for why we are where we are. No matter which way you cut it, we have too much stuff. And unfortunately it's not just "I'll never use that stuff" it's more "I'll probably use that ten years from now so I better hang onto it" stuff.
Charles' weakness is books. The man operates on the 18th Century system - books are valuable, each one takes a monk four years to birth, ergo we never throw a single one out and one day I will pass them on to my children in pristine glory and they will be on-their-knees grateful for the wonderful legacy I have bestowed on them. It does not bother him a whit that he'll likely never read half of them ever again in this lifetime or, that if he suddenly becomes unemployed/a paraplegic/develops Alzheimer's or any other reason that would make him want to read them again, that he can now buy most of them for less than $5 with free shipping from book depository. Nor does it concern him that the instant he croaks his kids will be loading up the nearest trailer with most of his beauties and gifting them to a very needy recycling centre.
My weakness is more insidious. Fabric and craft. I've got a whole wardrobe full of the stuff and I only just realised this week that I buy the things I need for specific projects and I almost never get creative with what's on hand. It makes no sense on earth to save every scrap from projects past because I am never going to use them. I had this epiphany only just last week when my aunt handed me a box of fabric scraps, trims and bias binding that she had received from an elderly friend who recently gave up sewing. That box was a veritable treasure trove. The things in it were likely extremely valuable when you considered how much the lady in question paid for them. And I am never, ever going to use them. It became the foundation of a very large pile of fabric and craft stuff destined for day care or charity.
The science of stuff and its accumulation is scary and intriguing all at once. To start with, so much of our stuff is disposable. Think about the plastic cutlery, straws and papers napkins you'll use in your lifetime. Stupendous. Now think of how many happy meal toys there must be cluttering up landfill. Terrifying. Then there's the accidental collections. I was discussing the accumulation of stuff with my Dad and he admitted to having about a dozen baseball caps that he doesn't remember getting in the first place and that he never wears.
Know how this starts? You have one hat you keep in case someone wants to wear it. You get a complimentary hat in a show bag, it goes with the first one. Someone notices you have more than one hat, they figure awesome, you collect, I've got Christmas sorted and they buy you another one with a cool logo*. Soon you're the guy that collects hats and you have to buy a rack to hang them all on. You have the power to make a day care centre somewhere very happy but you probably never think about the 11 baseball caps collecting dust that no one wears. Plus, you need something to hang on your rack now.
Finally there's the gifts. Why do we even buy each other gifts once we make it past the age of eight? Even if you buy me coasters because I need coasters, chances are they will be the last coasters on earth I would have bought**. And I'm the sort of person who feels so guilty about not liking gifts that I will have to begin a complicated series of maneuverings to get rid of the coasters in a manner that will make you feel that I liked your gift while simultaneously getting them out of my house as fast as possible. I will use them the first time you come so you feel that I appreciate your thoughtful gift. Then they will go in a cupboard for two years. If you do not mention them they will immediately be given to the Salvos. If you do mention them I will claim that my 72-year-old father took a fancy to them when he was staying with us and then they mysteriously disappeared. I will nod sadly and say he's getting a bit like that.
I'm on holidays this week and moving through the stuff with determination. Already one trailer load has left for landfill and another is being prepped for charity. There's also a sizeable number of things that must be returned and another massive garbage bag destined for the day care centre. The house is starting to look reasonable again and I feel like I can breathe. Now to talk to my man about his bibliophilia. The first step is admitting you have a problem...and then you can let the healing begin.
* One year my in-laws gave us an awesome biscuit jar shaped like a cupcake. The next year my Dad gave us another biscuit jar shaped like a cow. Charles and I looked at each other over the top of this quite cool gift and silently agreed that while it was indeed awesome, we would not let it grace our bench top for a single day because the instant anyone saw the two of them, we would suddenly be the couple who collect crazy biscuit jars. And we all know what happens after that.
** This is not strictly true. My mother-in-law bought me a set of coasters almost ten years ago now and they are still the only coasters I own and use. But you can see what an incredible fluke that is.
Those are the reasons for why we are where we are. No matter which way you cut it, we have too much stuff. And unfortunately it's not just "I'll never use that stuff" it's more "I'll probably use that ten years from now so I better hang onto it" stuff.
Charles' weakness is books. The man operates on the 18th Century system - books are valuable, each one takes a monk four years to birth, ergo we never throw a single one out and one day I will pass them on to my children in pristine glory and they will be on-their-knees grateful for the wonderful legacy I have bestowed on them. It does not bother him a whit that he'll likely never read half of them ever again in this lifetime or, that if he suddenly becomes unemployed/a paraplegic/develops Alzheimer's or any other reason that would make him want to read them again, that he can now buy most of them for less than $5 with free shipping from book depository. Nor does it concern him that the instant he croaks his kids will be loading up the nearest trailer with most of his beauties and gifting them to a very needy recycling centre.
My weakness is more insidious. Fabric and craft. I've got a whole wardrobe full of the stuff and I only just realised this week that I buy the things I need for specific projects and I almost never get creative with what's on hand. It makes no sense on earth to save every scrap from projects past because I am never going to use them. I had this epiphany only just last week when my aunt handed me a box of fabric scraps, trims and bias binding that she had received from an elderly friend who recently gave up sewing. That box was a veritable treasure trove. The things in it were likely extremely valuable when you considered how much the lady in question paid for them. And I am never, ever going to use them. It became the foundation of a very large pile of fabric and craft stuff destined for day care or charity.
The science of stuff and its accumulation is scary and intriguing all at once. To start with, so much of our stuff is disposable. Think about the plastic cutlery, straws and papers napkins you'll use in your lifetime. Stupendous. Now think of how many happy meal toys there must be cluttering up landfill. Terrifying. Then there's the accidental collections. I was discussing the accumulation of stuff with my Dad and he admitted to having about a dozen baseball caps that he doesn't remember getting in the first place and that he never wears.
Know how this starts? You have one hat you keep in case someone wants to wear it. You get a complimentary hat in a show bag, it goes with the first one. Someone notices you have more than one hat, they figure awesome, you collect, I've got Christmas sorted and they buy you another one with a cool logo*. Soon you're the guy that collects hats and you have to buy a rack to hang them all on. You have the power to make a day care centre somewhere very happy but you probably never think about the 11 baseball caps collecting dust that no one wears. Plus, you need something to hang on your rack now.
Finally there's the gifts. Why do we even buy each other gifts once we make it past the age of eight? Even if you buy me coasters because I need coasters, chances are they will be the last coasters on earth I would have bought**. And I'm the sort of person who feels so guilty about not liking gifts that I will have to begin a complicated series of maneuverings to get rid of the coasters in a manner that will make you feel that I liked your gift while simultaneously getting them out of my house as fast as possible. I will use them the first time you come so you feel that I appreciate your thoughtful gift. Then they will go in a cupboard for two years. If you do not mention them they will immediately be given to the Salvos. If you do mention them I will claim that my 72-year-old father took a fancy to them when he was staying with us and then they mysteriously disappeared. I will nod sadly and say he's getting a bit like that.
I'm on holidays this week and moving through the stuff with determination. Already one trailer load has left for landfill and another is being prepped for charity. There's also a sizeable number of things that must be returned and another massive garbage bag destined for the day care centre. The house is starting to look reasonable again and I feel like I can breathe. Now to talk to my man about his bibliophilia. The first step is admitting you have a problem...and then you can let the healing begin.
* One year my in-laws gave us an awesome biscuit jar shaped like a cupcake. The next year my Dad gave us another biscuit jar shaped like a cow. Charles and I looked at each other over the top of this quite cool gift and silently agreed that while it was indeed awesome, we would not let it grace our bench top for a single day because the instant anyone saw the two of them, we would suddenly be the couple who collect crazy biscuit jars. And we all know what happens after that.
** This is not strictly true. My mother-in-law bought me a set of coasters almost ten years ago now and they are still the only coasters I own and use. But you can see what an incredible fluke that is.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
The Breaking Point
Every parent has those moments when you feel your self-control slipping. They push you just a little bit further than usual and suddenly you find yourself remembering what life was like without them and wondering whether you ought to have yourself committed for your decision to have children as your temper explodes with the fire of a thousand suns.
I'm not a patient person by any stretch of the word but I take a lot more crap from my kids than I would from anyone else. Unfortunately there are still moments when the hull of self-possession is profoundly, catastrophically breached. Tonight was one of those nights.
I'm on leave for a week to look after Charlotte because she's on school holidays. James is in daycare during the day and, without the little Viking around to initiate wrestling contests, she's pretty easy to deal with. We had a lovely, girly day together - watching the Tinkerbell movie, walking to the shops for lunch in the little bakery and she even helped me out with some Spring cleaning.
It was hard to see how the day could turn sour but when it comes down to it, I just don't give my kids enough credit. First of all James came home in a sooky mood. And not just a "please cuddle me on the couch while I watch some Dora" kind of sooky but the "nothing is going to make me happy, not even an army of tap dancing spider monkeys wielding lollies and chocolate" kind of sooky. Every word coming out of his mouth is leveled at that perfect ear drum-penetrating pitch and drawn out into a protracted whine designed to drive you insane.
Over dinner my nerves gradually fell apart as Charlotte commenced chewing and spat out every second mouthful into her hand to examine it because "it's just weird"; James refused to eat the Mongolian lamb he'd asked for, choosing to spread it over the table instead and ask for "more wice" instead; he also got up and down from the table, crawling around underneath in between and then dribbled his milk everywhere, purely to see how we'd react; Charlotte saw what fun her brother was having and immediately commenced whining that she didn't get any milk, only water. Once I'd gotten up to get her some she suddenly decided she didn't want any. Both kids topped it off by whining about the lack of dessert in their immediate futures.
At the conclusion of dinner an exhausted Charles announced his intention of having a quick nap and both kids sensed the weakness that was my separation from the protection of the Daddy herd and immediately went in for the kill. In this particular instance they decided I needed to adjudicate the division of the only chocolate under our roof at the moment - a two-fingered kit kat and three chocolate coins. Neither child was happy with the Solomon-esque decision handed down so they rapidly did their own little trade and of course, they both felt that was worse than what they'd started with and the world ended.
After making it clear that they were both on incredibly thin ice I left them to it in the spare room and went for some of my own time out. I'd been chilling for not more than 30 seconds when a sheepish Charlotte appeared with her hands behind her back.
"What?" I barked, eyeing her warily.
"Mamaaaaa...I did something not so good."
"What?" I repeated, rubbing my eyes.
"My necklace broke and all the beads went everywhere."
"How did you break it?"
Shuffle of feet.
"Um...it just broke?"
"Don't say it like it's a question, just tell me how you broke it."
More shuffling of feet.
"Well you know how you told me not to stretch my necklace too much in case I broke it?"
"Yes?"
"Well how much trouble would I be in if I accidentally stretched it too much and broke it?"
"Just show me," I sigh.
Even then I was managing to hold on to my temper. It wasn't until the moment that I was bent over on all fours, scraping up tiny glass beads from the carpet in the spare room that the breaking point came. Because a naughty giggle was the only warning I got that my incredibly solid Viking toddler had decided my back was an excellent landing site for his epic leap from the top of the great height that is the spare bed.
On the up side both kids were too busy laughing to take notice of the death threats that were bellowed at them.
I'm not a patient person by any stretch of the word but I take a lot more crap from my kids than I would from anyone else. Unfortunately there are still moments when the hull of self-possession is profoundly, catastrophically breached. Tonight was one of those nights.
I'm on leave for a week to look after Charlotte because she's on school holidays. James is in daycare during the day and, without the little Viking around to initiate wrestling contests, she's pretty easy to deal with. We had a lovely, girly day together - watching the Tinkerbell movie, walking to the shops for lunch in the little bakery and she even helped me out with some Spring cleaning.
It was hard to see how the day could turn sour but when it comes down to it, I just don't give my kids enough credit. First of all James came home in a sooky mood. And not just a "please cuddle me on the couch while I watch some Dora" kind of sooky but the "nothing is going to make me happy, not even an army of tap dancing spider monkeys wielding lollies and chocolate" kind of sooky. Every word coming out of his mouth is leveled at that perfect ear drum-penetrating pitch and drawn out into a protracted whine designed to drive you insane.
Over dinner my nerves gradually fell apart as Charlotte commenced chewing and spat out every second mouthful into her hand to examine it because "it's just weird"; James refused to eat the Mongolian lamb he'd asked for, choosing to spread it over the table instead and ask for "more wice" instead; he also got up and down from the table, crawling around underneath in between and then dribbled his milk everywhere, purely to see how we'd react; Charlotte saw what fun her brother was having and immediately commenced whining that she didn't get any milk, only water. Once I'd gotten up to get her some she suddenly decided she didn't want any. Both kids topped it off by whining about the lack of dessert in their immediate futures.
At the conclusion of dinner an exhausted Charles announced his intention of having a quick nap and both kids sensed the weakness that was my separation from the protection of the Daddy herd and immediately went in for the kill. In this particular instance they decided I needed to adjudicate the division of the only chocolate under our roof at the moment - a two-fingered kit kat and three chocolate coins. Neither child was happy with the Solomon-esque decision handed down so they rapidly did their own little trade and of course, they both felt that was worse than what they'd started with and the world ended.
After making it clear that they were both on incredibly thin ice I left them to it in the spare room and went for some of my own time out. I'd been chilling for not more than 30 seconds when a sheepish Charlotte appeared with her hands behind her back.
"What?" I barked, eyeing her warily.
"Mamaaaaa...I did something not so good."
"What?" I repeated, rubbing my eyes.
"My necklace broke and all the beads went everywhere."
"How did you break it?"
Shuffle of feet.
"Um...it just broke?"
"Don't say it like it's a question, just tell me how you broke it."
More shuffling of feet.
"Well you know how you told me not to stretch my necklace too much in case I broke it?"
"Yes?"
"Well how much trouble would I be in if I accidentally stretched it too much and broke it?"
"Just show me," I sigh.
Even then I was managing to hold on to my temper. It wasn't until the moment that I was bent over on all fours, scraping up tiny glass beads from the carpet in the spare room that the breaking point came. Because a naughty giggle was the only warning I got that my incredibly solid Viking toddler had decided my back was an excellent landing site for his epic leap from the top of the great height that is the spare bed.
On the up side both kids were too busy laughing to take notice of the death threats that were bellowed at them.
Friday, October 7, 2011
The Positives of Negativity
I have a friend who told me once that anger isn't always bad - you just have to keep a firm leash on it and channel it into achieving something positive. It was a life-changing moment for me when he said that. I'm quick and passionate with my emotions, often to my own detriment. I'd accepted long ago that it will probably be several more lifetimes before I reach anything approaching Nirvana. But with those words I realised that providing I control my negative emotions (especially anger), I can use them as motivation to achieve or a spark to ignite others to action.
This week's negative emotion is not anger, it's just anxiety. There are a bunch of bad situations I have no control over at the moment and while some of them are closer to home than others, all of them are tying my guts in knots and giving me restless nights. Since there's almost nothing I can do about most of them (especially the work-related stuff), I've decided to distract myself with cleaning, catching up on sewing and exercising. Still wondering what the hell that little conversation actually meant? Do another 20 sit-ups. Worried about your husband's back? Go clean the spare room.
I am not the sort to obsess for long. Most things in life, as far as I'm concerned, are not worth more than 24 hours' worth of mental energy and angst. But somehow I've landed in a sort of thicket of issues and the sheer number of them means they're taking longer to push through than usual. So rather than fight my way out of here I'll just take this coming week of leave and channel all my frustrations into productive endeavors. Like cleaning out the walk-in wardrobe in the spare room...
This week's negative emotion is not anger, it's just anxiety. There are a bunch of bad situations I have no control over at the moment and while some of them are closer to home than others, all of them are tying my guts in knots and giving me restless nights. Since there's almost nothing I can do about most of them (especially the work-related stuff), I've decided to distract myself with cleaning, catching up on sewing and exercising. Still wondering what the hell that little conversation actually meant? Do another 20 sit-ups. Worried about your husband's back? Go clean the spare room.
I am not the sort to obsess for long. Most things in life, as far as I'm concerned, are not worth more than 24 hours' worth of mental energy and angst. But somehow I've landed in a sort of thicket of issues and the sheer number of them means they're taking longer to push through than usual. So rather than fight my way out of here I'll just take this coming week of leave and channel all my frustrations into productive endeavors. Like cleaning out the walk-in wardrobe in the spare room...
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Upcoming Changes to TC's Guide To Life
I've been looking through the statistics from my blog recently and it's suddenly hit me that I've been here writing for almost two years and my readership now is much bigger than it used to be. I'm getting hits from all over the world and the people coming here are no longer just my friends and family who have seen my links on Facebook. Because of that I've decided it's time to invest some time and effort in making it all a little more user friendly. First of all there are now a bunch more little thingies down the right there to make your viewing pleasure simpler. You can now search my blog, see the most popular posts of all time (weirdly the one about how to prune really big trees) and I've given people the option of subscribing by email if they'd like to receive the posts directly.
Charles is also going to look into getting a Facebook page for the blog so if you're not a friend of mine on Facebook because you don't actually know me personally, you'll be able to subscribe to that and get your latest TC news through that. I might even start using the news feed to give out totally useless tips like "don't freak out if you spill red wine on the carpet, we know you needed an excuse to replace it anyways so make like the wine was the nail in the coffin and go by something pretty to replace it."
I'll keep you posted as things come up but please feel free to email me any suggestions or advice on what would make the blog better, what you'd like to see more of and most importantly if there's anything specific you'd like me to write about. Stay tuned kitties!
Charles is also going to look into getting a Facebook page for the blog so if you're not a friend of mine on Facebook because you don't actually know me personally, you'll be able to subscribe to that and get your latest TC news through that. I might even start using the news feed to give out totally useless tips like "don't freak out if you spill red wine on the carpet, we know you needed an excuse to replace it anyways so make like the wine was the nail in the coffin and go by something pretty to replace it."
I'll keep you posted as things come up but please feel free to email me any suggestions or advice on what would make the blog better, what you'd like to see more of and most importantly if there's anything specific you'd like me to write about. Stay tuned kitties!
Butterscotch Pudding
Okey doke peeps a number of you wrote in and asked for the kitchen voodoo recipe so over the weekend I whipped it up again and this time took some photos. I've listed all the ingredients you'll need and then broken the recipe down into its three components. First up, here's everything you'll need;
¾ Cup Brown Sugar
Finally combine;
¾ Cup Brown Sugar
1¼ (190g) Cups Self Raising Flour
100g Butter
1 Egg
½ cup Milk
4 Tbs Golden Syrup
1 Tbs Cornflour
1½ Cups Boiling Water
Before you start set your oven to 180C and grease an oven-proof dish (at least 1.5L, preferably 2L).
In a bowl put;
¼ Cup Brown Sugar
1¼ (190g) Cups Self Raising Flour
Whisk the two until combined.
In a separate heatproof jug put;
100g Butter
½ Cup Milk
2 Tbs (60g) Golden Syrup
Heat until the butter is melted and stir until combined. Beat the egg lightly in a cup and then add to the milk mixture (make sure your milk mixture is warm, not hot, or you will cook your egg).
Tip the lot into the flour mixture and whisk through until combined and smooth, then spoon into your pre-greased ovenproof dish.
In a small bowl combine;
½ Cup Brown Sugar
1 Tbs Cornflour
Sprinkle evenly over the top of the pudding batter.
Finally combine;
2 Tbs (60g) Golden Syrup
1½ Cups Boiling Water
Pour the water over the top of the batter. To make sure it distributes evenly without disturbing the batter below too much, hold a large spoon upside down over the batter and pour the water over it.
I didn't get a photo of this stage because it looks so yuck I try to get it into the oven and out of my sight before I lose all faith. But if it looks like a huge muddy puddle immediately after a top-end torrential downpour, you're onto a winner. How long it will take to cook is kind of iffy depending on your oven.
The initial recipe said 40-45 minutes but my oven is less an oven and more some sort of wicked industrial kiln powered by the bowels of hell. It takes 30 minutes maximum in mine. So it would be fair to say that if your necklace heated up so much that it burnt your neck in the time it took to open the oven door and deposit your pudding, you won't want to go much longer than 30 minutes. If your appliance is more of the sedate slow-cook variety, give it longer. Either way when it comes out it should look like this;
Mmm, lovely golden-brown crunchy top. Inside should be a spongy gold and below that is the delicious butterscotch.
Oh yeah! Serve it up with some delicious ice cream...
...and share it around. It has the Little Viking Seal of Approval which means it's guaranteed full of win;
Although to be fair as far as the Little Viking is concerned Butterscotch Pudding is just a hot cake with warm, runny icing. And we know how he feels about cake.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Well That Was Restful
Looking back over my teenage years I can see that I had quite the alternative upbringing. Dad was constantly banging on about the greenhouse effect and the half life of cling wrap long before the term "carbon footprint" was coined. My step-mother, on the other hand, was the less practical more stereotypical type of hippy - she was all about the healing effects of positive thinking, the power of natural energy and our connection to other "beings" sharing our space on the planet (not just other people and not even other animals. Trees and plants were "beings" too because they were full of life energy).
It was an interesting way to grow up, and I'm sure I'll talk more about them in my future blog posts (especially since neither of them are likely to see it - Dad is a techno-phobic who doesn't understand why I can't just print out my blog posts and send him a "real" copy and who knows where the stepmother is. Last seen communing it up on a compound out near Bredbo I think.)
But one of their quirks which has rubbed off is a deep suspicion of any sort of medication. Got a headache? Drink some water and go lie down. Got a cold? Rug up and start chugging some honey and lemon tea. Sore throat? Gargle salt water. Oh yes, and garlic cures everything. The philosophy being that if you're in pain or not feeling well your body is trying to tell you something and you might consider addressing what the problem is before you decide to medicate yourself to hide the symptoms.
In some respects this is a really good approach. I nagged Charles incessantly for two years to go see a doctor or try an elimination diet to find out why he was going to the bathroom seven times a day for 20 minute intervals at a trot. In the end he finally realised he was lactose intolerant because a web comic depicted a character with his issues. The only way that whole incident could have been any dumber is if he'd been forking out for Gastro-Stop or Imodium the whole time to try and calm things down.
I digress. The upshot of the medication free upbringing is that my body has failed to develop any sort of tolerance for medications of almost any kind and I hate the way they make me feel when I take them. One Panadol is the most I'll ever take and even then it will be out of sheer desperation when all else has failed. Charles, on the other hand, feels that the more support we give the pharmaceutical industry by taking their products, the faster they'll get to the point where they can cure cancer. Four Panadol. Minimum.
Toothaches are my exception. You know what the problem is, you just can't always make it to the dentist straight away so you gotta take the pain killers until you manage to treat the problem. Even so I restrict myself to one pain killer just before bed so I can sleep. I've had a toothache for about a week now - a byproduct of a way-overdue crown. So over the past few days I've been downing a Panafen right before bed. Panafen is a delightful little mix of Ibuprofen and Codeine - takes the pain away and doesn't leave me feeling too out of it the next day. It's good stuff. Then I ran out. With nothing stronger than Panadol I turned to Charles' stash and discovered Mersyndol. Pharmacist only medicine, not prescribed. Should be right with one of these, right?
The first hour I was hyperactive. I'm not sure if this was the drug or the lack of sleep I've been experiencing of late thanks to some wicked nightmares. Then, just as I was climbing into the shower to try and calm down so I could go to bed, the Mersyndol which "may cause drowsiness" crashed into my neural network. Everything after that moment is blank. I did not dream. I did not toss and turn. I don't remember anything. At some point I got up and I remember being very determined to go to work. I think I helped Charles get the kids ready and out the door but in all honesty the only thing I can remember is thinking quite repetitively "I've got to go to work" although the reasons for why I should were not entirely clear.
What is clear is that I went straight back to bed after they left and I did not wake up until two o'clock this afternoon. My throat was sore and my head ached with dehydration. Things still felt a bit weird. And just like that Mersyndol joined the list of things I won't take unless I'm desperate.
It was an interesting way to grow up, and I'm sure I'll talk more about them in my future blog posts (especially since neither of them are likely to see it - Dad is a techno-phobic who doesn't understand why I can't just print out my blog posts and send him a "real" copy and who knows where the stepmother is. Last seen communing it up on a compound out near Bredbo I think.)
But one of their quirks which has rubbed off is a deep suspicion of any sort of medication. Got a headache? Drink some water and go lie down. Got a cold? Rug up and start chugging some honey and lemon tea. Sore throat? Gargle salt water. Oh yes, and garlic cures everything. The philosophy being that if you're in pain or not feeling well your body is trying to tell you something and you might consider addressing what the problem is before you decide to medicate yourself to hide the symptoms.
In some respects this is a really good approach. I nagged Charles incessantly for two years to go see a doctor or try an elimination diet to find out why he was going to the bathroom seven times a day for 20 minute intervals at a trot. In the end he finally realised he was lactose intolerant because a web comic depicted a character with his issues. The only way that whole incident could have been any dumber is if he'd been forking out for Gastro-Stop or Imodium the whole time to try and calm things down.
I digress. The upshot of the medication free upbringing is that my body has failed to develop any sort of tolerance for medications of almost any kind and I hate the way they make me feel when I take them. One Panadol is the most I'll ever take and even then it will be out of sheer desperation when all else has failed. Charles, on the other hand, feels that the more support we give the pharmaceutical industry by taking their products, the faster they'll get to the point where they can cure cancer. Four Panadol. Minimum.
Toothaches are my exception. You know what the problem is, you just can't always make it to the dentist straight away so you gotta take the pain killers until you manage to treat the problem. Even so I restrict myself to one pain killer just before bed so I can sleep. I've had a toothache for about a week now - a byproduct of a way-overdue crown. So over the past few days I've been downing a Panafen right before bed. Panafen is a delightful little mix of Ibuprofen and Codeine - takes the pain away and doesn't leave me feeling too out of it the next day. It's good stuff. Then I ran out. With nothing stronger than Panadol I turned to Charles' stash and discovered Mersyndol. Pharmacist only medicine, not prescribed. Should be right with one of these, right?
The first hour I was hyperactive. I'm not sure if this was the drug or the lack of sleep I've been experiencing of late thanks to some wicked nightmares. Then, just as I was climbing into the shower to try and calm down so I could go to bed, the Mersyndol which "may cause drowsiness" crashed into my neural network. Everything after that moment is blank. I did not dream. I did not toss and turn. I don't remember anything. At some point I got up and I remember being very determined to go to work. I think I helped Charles get the kids ready and out the door but in all honesty the only thing I can remember is thinking quite repetitively "I've got to go to work" although the reasons for why I should were not entirely clear.
What is clear is that I went straight back to bed after they left and I did not wake up until two o'clock this afternoon. My throat was sore and my head ached with dehydration. Things still felt a bit weird. And just like that Mersyndol joined the list of things I won't take unless I'm desperate.
Kitchen Voodoo
Tonight I made butterscotch self-saucing pudding for dessert because Chris was coming over for weights with Charles and that means dinner afterwards with him, Jen and the babies. I'm a bit dubious about self-saucing puddings and I always hold my breath while I make one. First of all you make a runny batter and pop it in an oven-proof dish. Then you pour a bunch of boiling water on top, throw it in the oven and when it comes out the top is crisp and delicious and underneath is a thick layer of molten butterscotch.
Don't get me wrong, this particular pudding is a great choice because it costs almost nothing to make and it's dead simple. But it seems so...wrong... To me the whole transformation from slop to tasty dessert of win is not so much culinary science as kitchen voodoo. Makes me feel like I need a shrine to the Kitchen Goddess.
Don't get me wrong, this particular pudding is a great choice because it costs almost nothing to make and it's dead simple. But it seems so...wrong... To me the whole transformation from slop to tasty dessert of win is not so much culinary science as kitchen voodoo. Makes me feel like I need a shrine to the Kitchen Goddess.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Where Did You Learn to Dance Like That???
Lately I've been taking every opportunity I can to throw my music on our awesome sound system - especially when I'm cooking or cleaning. I mainly wait until my man isn't around because he likes the sort of music where loud angry men scream things in German while torturing their instruments and my tastes are far more hippy-like and I like to dance without an audience.
When the kids are around I'll bust out the daggy 90s stuff or the more boppy top 40 stuff. Madam's a big fan of Katy Perry and James is thoroughly obsessed with Lady Gaga. I personally nurse a Roxette fetish.
A few days ago I was making dinner while the kids danced up a storm. James just jumps around, stamping his feet, waving his arms and lolling his head back and forth to the music. Charlotte...well Charlotte is much better at coordinated dance moves but there was really only one way to describe it. Bootylicious. The girl is not yet six but it was like she was channeling Beyoncé. I was thoroughly shocked - it's not like we even let them watch the music channels so I had no clue where she would have seen dancing like that. But I was going to get to the bottom of it.
"Charlotte! Where on earth did you learn to dance like that?"
She looked up at me in confusion, pausing mid-gyration.
"Mama, this is how you dance when you think no one's watching. Do you like it? I've been practicing."
Huh. I will have to pay more attention to how I dance with the kids around. Still, at least the burlesque appears to have paid off.
When the kids are around I'll bust out the daggy 90s stuff or the more boppy top 40 stuff. Madam's a big fan of Katy Perry and James is thoroughly obsessed with Lady Gaga. I personally nurse a Roxette fetish.
A few days ago I was making dinner while the kids danced up a storm. James just jumps around, stamping his feet, waving his arms and lolling his head back and forth to the music. Charlotte...well Charlotte is much better at coordinated dance moves but there was really only one way to describe it. Bootylicious. The girl is not yet six but it was like she was channeling Beyoncé. I was thoroughly shocked - it's not like we even let them watch the music channels so I had no clue where she would have seen dancing like that. But I was going to get to the bottom of it.
"Charlotte! Where on earth did you learn to dance like that?"
She looked up at me in confusion, pausing mid-gyration.
"Mama, this is how you dance when you think no one's watching. Do you like it? I've been practicing."
Huh. I will have to pay more attention to how I dance with the kids around. Still, at least the burlesque appears to have paid off.
Thank God That's Over
Our family has come through a hard time recently. There has been trouble and turmoil, stress and strife. Can you guess what this post is about? I'll give you a hint;
That's Charlotte aged 13 weeks old sucking her newly discovered thumb. I know there's a wealth of advice out there for parents regarding comforters for babies. Dummy vs Thumb vs Let 'em cry. But thumb sucking came naturally to our daughter and she was a pretty calm, relaxed little thing who slept well so we figured, why rock the boat? She's made the decision for us. Charles and I are also the sort of parents who just wing it without too much agonising or philosophizing. We figured it served a purpose and she'd give it up when she was good and ready. As long as that was before her adult teeth came in, who cares?
Unfortunately life doesn't always go the way you think it will. Our daughter who self-weaned, toilet trained in essentially one day and who has always sort of grown organically into the next stage without much prompting never did abandon that thumb. In fact over time it went from something she did when she was stressed or tired to something she'd do 24/7 without a second thought. As she turned five, with no end in sight, Charles and I were forced to accept that parental will, control and discipline might have to intervene. Yikes.
Autocratic parenting does not sit well on me. I believe that with enough information and support kids will choose the right path if they're given the opportunity. Trying to tell them what to do without sense or reason to back you up and not giving them choices just fosters rebellion. I also knew that since thumb sucking is her stress relief, it would be criminal to stress her out by forcing her to give it up and punishing her if she failed. Talk about sowing the seeds therapy will have to reap.
So one day I told her I wanted to show her something and we sat down together and looked at photos on Google of adult teeth corrupted by thumb sucking. I explained that she would eventually have to give the thumb up and that if she didn't do it before her adult teeth came in then they would grow into a strange shape and she would need braces to fix them when she was older. I explained that I couldn't make her give up her thumb because then she would just sneak it when I wasn't looking. I told her that I wanted her to consider giving up her thumb and decide when she would like to give it up. I promised her that if she made that choice I would do everything in my power to help her. And I left it at that.
A week later she told me it was time and we went looking for a solution. We talked through some of the options and in the end she asked me to buy her a Thumb Busters glove in pink*.
When it arrived she was very excited. I explained that for two weeks she would wear it in the daytime only (we wanted to ease her into it as much as possible). After that we would introduce it at night too. For every day that she didn't suck her thumb I would give her a small gift and $1. When she had $50 we would take her down to Opa's and she could go to the Magic Shop (The Trading Post in Mogo) and buy whatever she wanted with her money. She was very excited.
Unfortunately I did not comprehend the depth of her obsession or her reaction to giving up her thumb. It was worse than the 24 hours my Dad had to do without smokes when he got his dentures. It was worse than Charles with low blood sugar (although not by much). By sundown I was ready to rip her head off and both Charles and I were pleading with her to take it off early and just suck the damn thing. She was in tears with the stress of it and because she had broken down twice and snuck the glove off for a quick suck she was heart-breakingly angry at herself. She was so disappointed in herself that she refused the dollar and the present because she hadn't earned them. Nothing we could say or do made it better - she was totally convinced that she had failed herself.
The next three days were harrowing. I thought I'd made a huge mistake and constantly questioned myself but Charlotte remained absolutely determined. After those three days she improved slightly. A week later and she spontaneously stopped wearing it during the day altogether, announcing that she didn't suck her thumb during the day anymore. There wasn't a single relapse. Two weeks to the day after the glove first went on we started putting it on at night. That first night it was eleven before she fell asleep and then it was from pure exhaustion. Again a week later she just stopped wearing it and she never once relapsed.
The advantage of this approach is that she chose the timing and she was determined to do it - we didn't have to force her. She told me at one stage that giving up her thumb had convinced her that she could do anything in the world she wants because nothing will ever be as hard as giving up the thumb. I was fit to burst that she made that connection and I'm thrilled that it made her feel so powerful.
The downside is that she's been like a chocolate-deprived PMSing teenager for a month. Her thumb has been her method for coping with stress since she was 13 weeks old. It's a hard habit to break. She's been bursting into tears and storming off three minutes after we've managed to calm her down from the last hissy fit. She's been slamming doors. Leaving me notes telling me I'm the worst mother in the world and accusing me of favouring her baby brother. I despaired that she would ever go back to being the sunny little angel we've always been blessed with.
And then, two days ago and nearly five weeks after we first started this whole saga, it was like a switch got flicked. She's back. Spontaneous cuddles. Notes telling me I'm wonderful. Foot massages. Cleaning her room and her brother's room too. I wept in the shower the first night she wanted me to read her to sleep instead of Daddy. And then tonight there was this;
It appears that the crisis has passed and no one was killed. Thank goodness. And now you know why we call her our little rod of solid will.
* Please note this is not my photo - it belongs to the person I bought the glove off. You can find their store on Ebay here.
That's Charlotte aged 13 weeks old sucking her newly discovered thumb. I know there's a wealth of advice out there for parents regarding comforters for babies. Dummy vs Thumb vs Let 'em cry. But thumb sucking came naturally to our daughter and she was a pretty calm, relaxed little thing who slept well so we figured, why rock the boat? She's made the decision for us. Charles and I are also the sort of parents who just wing it without too much agonising or philosophizing. We figured it served a purpose and she'd give it up when she was good and ready. As long as that was before her adult teeth came in, who cares?
Unfortunately life doesn't always go the way you think it will. Our daughter who self-weaned, toilet trained in essentially one day and who has always sort of grown organically into the next stage without much prompting never did abandon that thumb. In fact over time it went from something she did when she was stressed or tired to something she'd do 24/7 without a second thought. As she turned five, with no end in sight, Charles and I were forced to accept that parental will, control and discipline might have to intervene. Yikes.
Autocratic parenting does not sit well on me. I believe that with enough information and support kids will choose the right path if they're given the opportunity. Trying to tell them what to do without sense or reason to back you up and not giving them choices just fosters rebellion. I also knew that since thumb sucking is her stress relief, it would be criminal to stress her out by forcing her to give it up and punishing her if she failed. Talk about sowing the seeds therapy will have to reap.
So one day I told her I wanted to show her something and we sat down together and looked at photos on Google of adult teeth corrupted by thumb sucking. I explained that she would eventually have to give the thumb up and that if she didn't do it before her adult teeth came in then they would grow into a strange shape and she would need braces to fix them when she was older. I explained that I couldn't make her give up her thumb because then she would just sneak it when I wasn't looking. I told her that I wanted her to consider giving up her thumb and decide when she would like to give it up. I promised her that if she made that choice I would do everything in my power to help her. And I left it at that.
A week later she told me it was time and we went looking for a solution. We talked through some of the options and in the end she asked me to buy her a Thumb Busters glove in pink*.
When it arrived she was very excited. I explained that for two weeks she would wear it in the daytime only (we wanted to ease her into it as much as possible). After that we would introduce it at night too. For every day that she didn't suck her thumb I would give her a small gift and $1. When she had $50 we would take her down to Opa's and she could go to the Magic Shop (The Trading Post in Mogo) and buy whatever she wanted with her money. She was very excited.
Unfortunately I did not comprehend the depth of her obsession or her reaction to giving up her thumb. It was worse than the 24 hours my Dad had to do without smokes when he got his dentures. It was worse than Charles with low blood sugar (although not by much). By sundown I was ready to rip her head off and both Charles and I were pleading with her to take it off early and just suck the damn thing. She was in tears with the stress of it and because she had broken down twice and snuck the glove off for a quick suck she was heart-breakingly angry at herself. She was so disappointed in herself that she refused the dollar and the present because she hadn't earned them. Nothing we could say or do made it better - she was totally convinced that she had failed herself.
The next three days were harrowing. I thought I'd made a huge mistake and constantly questioned myself but Charlotte remained absolutely determined. After those three days she improved slightly. A week later and she spontaneously stopped wearing it during the day altogether, announcing that she didn't suck her thumb during the day anymore. There wasn't a single relapse. Two weeks to the day after the glove first went on we started putting it on at night. That first night it was eleven before she fell asleep and then it was from pure exhaustion. Again a week later she just stopped wearing it and she never once relapsed.
The advantage of this approach is that she chose the timing and she was determined to do it - we didn't have to force her. She told me at one stage that giving up her thumb had convinced her that she could do anything in the world she wants because nothing will ever be as hard as giving up the thumb. I was fit to burst that she made that connection and I'm thrilled that it made her feel so powerful.
The downside is that she's been like a chocolate-deprived PMSing teenager for a month. Her thumb has been her method for coping with stress since she was 13 weeks old. It's a hard habit to break. She's been bursting into tears and storming off three minutes after we've managed to calm her down from the last hissy fit. She's been slamming doors. Leaving me notes telling me I'm the worst mother in the world and accusing me of favouring her baby brother. I despaired that she would ever go back to being the sunny little angel we've always been blessed with.
And then, two days ago and nearly five weeks after we first started this whole saga, it was like a switch got flicked. She's back. Spontaneous cuddles. Notes telling me I'm wonderful. Foot massages. Cleaning her room and her brother's room too. I wept in the shower the first night she wanted me to read her to sleep instead of Daddy. And then tonight there was this;
It was stuck to our bedroom door and it says "Please accept what I have done for you". Opening the bedroom door revealed our bed has been made and she has stacked up all of my books for me on my bedside table.
* Please note this is not my photo - it belongs to the person I bought the glove off. You can find their store on Ebay here.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Make it Double Snappy
This afternoon I had a surprise for my little princess when I picked her up...Nanny had asked for a visit. I'd brought clothes for her to change into and we managed it in record time - then I hustled her quickly into the car. Once seat belts were on I twisted around to look at her.
"You know what we say now?"
"No."
"We say 'Nanny's house stat Mama!'"
"Nanny's house Mama!"
"No, no, no, you forgot the 'stat.'"
"What does 'stat' mean?"
"It means "right now". So when you say "Nanny's house stat" you're really saying "let's go to Nanny's house right now Mama, as quickly as we can!" Want to give it a try?"
"Sure! Nanny's stat right now Mama! Make it double snappy!"
The girl's comedic genius.
"You know what we say now?"
"No."
"We say 'Nanny's house stat Mama!'"
"Nanny's house Mama!"
"No, no, no, you forgot the 'stat.'"
"What does 'stat' mean?"
"It means "right now". So when you say "Nanny's house stat" you're really saying "let's go to Nanny's house right now Mama, as quickly as we can!" Want to give it a try?"
"Sure! Nanny's stat right now Mama! Make it double snappy!"
The girl's comedic genius.
Monday, September 26, 2011
A Long Time Coming
It seems like a long time ago now that I wrote about depression and how it had touched our lives. At the time I wrote about how much better Charles was doing and how he seemed to be returning to himself. I can see now that those thoughts were like those first few weeks when you start to shake off a serious sickness. You think you're better. You tell people you're better. And somewhere weeks later when you're actually better you realise that in those first few weeks when you thought you were better it was simply that you were a little bit better and you'd forgotten what truly healthy felt like.
That's how I feel now about Charles' depression. I was so happy with the progress he'd made last November. I thought he was better. But it was only the start. In all that time I'd forgotten what sort of couple we used to be. I'd forgotten what it's like to have a partner that does their share without asking. What it's like to be married to a man who cuddles you spontaneously all the time and can't keep his hands off you. I'd forgotten what it's like to be crazy in love.
We talked recently about how things are going, whether there's anything we want to work on*. Charles mentioned that he really likes me to wear lipstick and nail polish - something I haven't had time for in years. It's such a small thing and now that he's back on board I've got time for optional extras. So I let him choose the colour and I painted my nails a vibrant red. It felt amazing...it tasted like victory. We're back.
In the past week heaps of people commented on how I was looking. Wow you look different, I love that colour on you, have you done something to your hair? It might simply be lipstick and nail polish or it might be that I'm falling in love all over again.
* We call these "status updates" and they're designed to address even the tiniest of things.
That's how I feel now about Charles' depression. I was so happy with the progress he'd made last November. I thought he was better. But it was only the start. In all that time I'd forgotten what sort of couple we used to be. I'd forgotten what it's like to have a partner that does their share without asking. What it's like to be married to a man who cuddles you spontaneously all the time and can't keep his hands off you. I'd forgotten what it's like to be crazy in love.
We talked recently about how things are going, whether there's anything we want to work on*. Charles mentioned that he really likes me to wear lipstick and nail polish - something I haven't had time for in years. It's such a small thing and now that he's back on board I've got time for optional extras. So I let him choose the colour and I painted my nails a vibrant red. It felt amazing...it tasted like victory. We're back.
In the past week heaps of people commented on how I was looking. Wow you look different, I love that colour on you, have you done something to your hair? It might simply be lipstick and nail polish or it might be that I'm falling in love all over again.
* We call these "status updates" and they're designed to address even the tiniest of things.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
How to Summon Sheep - and Sisters
Charlotte and James' Opa lives on a small holding near Bega where he grows veggies, a huge range of fruit trees and runs a small flock of Dorpers. Recently one of his ewes died a few days after giving birth and he suddenly found himself the surrogate mother of a small black lamb affectionately called Rambo*. I could hardly contain Charlotte's excitement at the prospect of hand feeding a little black lamb so we duly loaded up and headed down the coast for the weekend.
Rambo was indeed adorable and the kids loved him. He has a small pen under my Dad's pergola where he can sleep, safe from foxes and close to "Mum". He's quite tame which is a good thing because Charlotte was determined to force her affection on the bewildered little thing at every opportunity.
The kids had a blast. Doing farm chores with Opa is always a big hit. Their favorite part is loading up with sheep nuts and going down to feed the sheep and the two alpacas charged with their care.
See little Rambo there? Very cute and almost all black. Rambo also gets dropped off for the day - a sort of ovine day care to make his transition from pet to sheep easier later.
Charlotte spent all weekend fizzing like a Coke Mentos bomb with excitement and alternating between zooming around the farm getting into everything and sleeping with gusto.
James was more sedate but the farm visit made a much deeper impression on him than we realised. Since we've been back James has been demanding "Opa breakfast" almost every day - a bowl of muesli with fresh fruit and yoghurt stirred through. But he's also adopted Opa's method of summoning the sheep - dropping his voice and bellowing "C'MORRRRRN" at the top of his tiny lungs. Only thing is he's using it to summon his wayward sister, not sheep. Opa is extremely pleased.
* My Dad's little joke - when they castrate him he'll lose the ram and just be Beau.
Rambo was indeed adorable and the kids loved him. He has a small pen under my Dad's pergola where he can sleep, safe from foxes and close to "Mum". He's quite tame which is a good thing because Charlotte was determined to force her affection on the bewildered little thing at every opportunity.
The kids had a blast. Doing farm chores with Opa is always a big hit. Their favorite part is loading up with sheep nuts and going down to feed the sheep and the two alpacas charged with their care.
See little Rambo there? Very cute and almost all black. Rambo also gets dropped off for the day - a sort of ovine day care to make his transition from pet to sheep easier later.
Charlotte spent all weekend fizzing like a Coke Mentos bomb with excitement and alternating between zooming around the farm getting into everything and sleeping with gusto.
 |
| The End of a Long Day at Opa's |
James was more sedate but the farm visit made a much deeper impression on him than we realised. Since we've been back James has been demanding "Opa breakfast" almost every day - a bowl of muesli with fresh fruit and yoghurt stirred through. But he's also adopted Opa's method of summoning the sheep - dropping his voice and bellowing "C'MORRRRRN" at the top of his tiny lungs. Only thing is he's using it to summon his wayward sister, not sheep. Opa is extremely pleased.
 |
| Farmer James |
The Fat Face of Tragedy
Recently while I was tapping away on the computer my small daughter came and tugged on my sleeve.
"Mama?"
"Mmm?"
"Mama I've been thinking about something for a while and I'm very, very sad."
"What's wrong sweetie?"
"I've been looking at my face in the mirror and it's really, really faaaaaat!"
The last word was a wail of despair. Charlotte's never been remotely concerned about her weight or appearance before but she was clearly distraught and needed my full attention. I turned to look fully at her and immediately started to laugh.
"It's not funny!" she shrieked, "It's a tragedy!"
"Honey," I soothed, "Honey Mama's laughing because you're looking at yourself in Mama's beauty mirror. It's meant to make your face bigger. Try this..."
And I flipped it over to the normal side.
She stared in disbelief for a moment and then her breath came out in a ha!
"Phew," she breathed, "It's still only a little bit fat. That's okay!"
"Mama?"
"Mmm?"
"Mama I've been thinking about something for a while and I'm very, very sad."
"What's wrong sweetie?"
"I've been looking at my face in the mirror and it's really, really faaaaaat!"
The last word was a wail of despair. Charlotte's never been remotely concerned about her weight or appearance before but she was clearly distraught and needed my full attention. I turned to look fully at her and immediately started to laugh.
"It's not funny!" she shrieked, "It's a tragedy!"
"Honey," I soothed, "Honey Mama's laughing because you're looking at yourself in Mama's beauty mirror. It's meant to make your face bigger. Try this..."
And I flipped it over to the normal side.
She stared in disbelief for a moment and then her breath came out in a ha!
"Phew," she breathed, "It's still only a little bit fat. That's okay!"
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| Do I look fat to you? |
Monday, September 19, 2011
Daddy's Friends
Charlotte's pretty out there socially. She's an extroverted little kid and she's not at all afraid of addressing adults. Recently we had a visit from Charles' cousin James who is tall and solid like Charles. He has dark hair like Charles. He also wears glasses and has a beard. Charlotte told him he looked a lot like her Daddy (despite the beard).
A few days later Big Jim came over to do weights and was greeted by our fearless little rod of solid will. Big Jim is a lot like Charles too - same height, solid build, dark hair. And like James, Big Jim has glasses and a beard cropped in a similar way. I came in at the tail end of that particular greeting to find Charlotte regarding Big Jim thoughtfully as he talked to her.
"I'm one of your Daddy's friends," he was explaining.
"Oh I know," she nodded, "You all look the same."
The kid's kind of right. Charles seems to have a lot of friends who are tall, solid and have dark hair. A number of them also come with glasses and facial hair. To Charlotte they're all just slightly different versions of her Dad. The real insult though came tonight when Daddy was hosting two friends (one who kinda looks like him and one not so much) to play Dystopian Wars. As they set up Charlotte came out and took in the sight of them.
"Daddy, you have two friends?" she asked in disbelief.
A few days later Big Jim came over to do weights and was greeted by our fearless little rod of solid will. Big Jim is a lot like Charles too - same height, solid build, dark hair. And like James, Big Jim has glasses and a beard cropped in a similar way. I came in at the tail end of that particular greeting to find Charlotte regarding Big Jim thoughtfully as he talked to her.
"I'm one of your Daddy's friends," he was explaining.
"Oh I know," she nodded, "You all look the same."
The kid's kind of right. Charles seems to have a lot of friends who are tall, solid and have dark hair. A number of them also come with glasses and facial hair. To Charlotte they're all just slightly different versions of her Dad. The real insult though came tonight when Daddy was hosting two friends (one who kinda looks like him and one not so much) to play Dystopian Wars. As they set up Charlotte came out and took in the sight of them.
"Daddy, you have two friends?" she asked in disbelief.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Spot Training Doesn't Work. Apparently.
So today is day nine of the thirty sit-ups for thirty days challenge - except that so far there's only been one day where I only did 30 and that was because the Ridiculously Dominant Husband chose to bark at me while I did weights instead of sit-ups. In fact, I've mostly been doing 35 or 40 and yesterday I even made it to 45. The number of reps in a set are also getting higher and the time I need between sets is shorter. 60 seconds tops now.
Anyway, as a curious side note, I had no idea how important it is to have an intact core before you do weights but two things were blindingly obvious the moment I took the weights off the rack;
1.) The sit-ups have been taking their toll; and
2.) Trying to do a full weights workout with sore abs is up there with being drenched in honey and left on an anthill in the Texas sun*.
All that work must surely be doing something. Luckily before I started the challenge I jumped onto the Calorie King website and signed up to keep track of everything (brillo suggestion from the sister-in-law Jen, more on that later). Halfway through the week I noted that my pants were a little loose and starting to fall down a bit. RDH scoffed and said spot training doesn't work, no way have I lost weight around the middle purely from doing sit-ups (and eating properly you bully). Okey doke. Let's see how we go at weigh in. Which was today. Two kilos down, very nice. But the big surprise? Seven centimetres off the hips and five off the waist.
Holy moly. I knew my core was a bit sad after giving birth to the little Viking but I had no idea how badly it needed some whipping into shape. I don't for a second think that I've lost a bunch of fat from around my middle - that will take longer, I'm sure. But I do think that the sit-ups have been quite effective at tightening the muscles back up and pulling them back into place. Might have to add in some push-ups and see if we can correct the T-rex situation.
*Seriously, I've got no idea where these analogies come from. But reading them back they always fit with how I felt at the time.
Anyway, as a curious side note, I had no idea how important it is to have an intact core before you do weights but two things were blindingly obvious the moment I took the weights off the rack;
1.) The sit-ups have been taking their toll; and
2.) Trying to do a full weights workout with sore abs is up there with being drenched in honey and left on an anthill in the Texas sun*.
All that work must surely be doing something. Luckily before I started the challenge I jumped onto the Calorie King website and signed up to keep track of everything (brillo suggestion from the sister-in-law Jen, more on that later). Halfway through the week I noted that my pants were a little loose and starting to fall down a bit. RDH scoffed and said spot training doesn't work, no way have I lost weight around the middle purely from doing sit-ups (and eating properly you bully). Okey doke. Let's see how we go at weigh in. Which was today. Two kilos down, very nice. But the big surprise? Seven centimetres off the hips and five off the waist.
Holy moly. I knew my core was a bit sad after giving birth to the little Viking but I had no idea how badly it needed some whipping into shape. I don't for a second think that I've lost a bunch of fat from around my middle - that will take longer, I'm sure. But I do think that the sit-ups have been quite effective at tightening the muscles back up and pulling them back into place. Might have to add in some push-ups and see if we can correct the T-rex situation.
*Seriously, I've got no idea where these analogies come from. But reading them back they always fit with how I felt at the time.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Uncle Chris gets Complimented
I've mentioned previously how Charlotte's Uncle Chris comes over once a week to do weights with Charles. He comes straight from work and has to change into his workout clothes in the spare room. We're a fairly open family so yesterday when Uncle Chris closed the door to get changed, Madam immediately tried to open it and go in. Uncle Chris told her that he had to change and she should wait outside because he'd only be a minute.
"Don't worry," she smiled reassuringly, "I won't laugh."
"Don't worry," she smiled reassuringly, "I won't laugh."
Apparently The Apocalypse is here
Yesterday we came home to this;
Not sure what it is? Want a closer look? Okey doke;
Yup - we've been swarmed. And then this morning we woke to this;
We're inside the "stay inside and don't even think about sending your kids to school" zone. Clearly The Apocalyspe has begun. Prepare for the rapture!
More seriously, my darling husband happens to be a bee enthusiast. So before I could get my skates on and hit Bunnings for my own domestically-sized chemical flame thrower I was ordered to ring the ACT Beekeepers Association. Admittedly it's costing us $50 to have the swarm removed but if I'd nuked them I probably would have been made to sleep on the couch (such is the love of our little apidaetian friends) for a month so it's kind of money well spent and it's way cheaper than calling a pest inspector.
For your information though;
1.) Swarms are quite docile (the practice of wearing a "Bee Beard" relies on this) but they will act to protect the queen so no hosing them with water, chemicals, etc.
2.) Most bees are not aggressive unless threatened so if they come near you or land on you, don't commence the slap dance, just hold still and wait for them to push off. Remember - a sting might be painful for you but it's fatal to the bee. It's a last resort type tactic.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Daddy's Just Better
Charlotte was pretty adamant tonight that Daddy should be the one to read her Fantastic Mr Fox. Frustrated at the ongoing preference for Daddy's reading, I asked her why she wanted Daddy to do her night time reading all the time and not Mama. She screwed her little face up and regarded me solemnly.
"Well Mama...don't take this the wrong way...it's just that Daddy's heaps fatter than you and that means he's heaps more comfy to cuddle."
Thanks kid.
"Well Mama...don't take this the wrong way...it's just that Daddy's heaps fatter than you and that means he's heaps more comfy to cuddle."
Thanks kid.
Weight Training with the Ridiculously Dominant Husband
I recently wrote about my 30 a day for 30 days challenge and my husband’s insane assumption of the role of my very own Biggest Loser-style trainer. What I neglected to mention is that he’s also been doing weight training with me*. Charles is scary big and when he does weights he bulks up and gains strength fast. I, on the other hand, apart from being lacking in the testosterone department which fuels such incredible muscle growth, have always been known as “T-Rex” because of my arms and not because they’re insanely cool or killer-like in nature.
I like to politely refer to them as “farm-grown”. I can’t do a bunch of reps but I can swing 20 kilos of cement or dog food up onto my shoulder and walk it to wherever it needs to go and so far that’s worked for me. Having kids was a bonus that improved my arm strength too. You can’t have a mama-addicted toddler and not build arm strength. But that’s a whole other kettle of fish compared to doing proper weights.
So apparently my weight training program is geared towards strength and not bulking. Which means low reps with heavier weights. Sucks to be me. Charles informs me that the idea is to do a maximum of eight with enough weight that I can’t possibly do nine. I’ll bet you can guess which side of the line he errs on for the sake of caution.
To give you some perspective, our weights bar weighs ten kilos. Before kids I used to just bench press this. When I started weights training recently, I started on 25 kilos which I could barely do. Since I seem to have achieved a level we’ll call “coping”** with the 25 kilos weights, tonight Charles decided that it should be 30. The unfairness of it made me want to throw a tantrum. Realising that strength training will probably involve upping the weights almost every time I manage to “cope” made me want to go cry in the shower and go to bed.
So tonight as I approached number five I realised I was not just struggling for dignity – it was all out for survival because I could barely keep the wretched thing off my neck. I nearly cried when I got to seven and there was no way I could do another. I wasn’t even sure I could get the bar back on the rack.
Ridiculously Dominant Husband (RDH) barked at me and demanded that I finish the set. He even offered to help me, slipping his hand under the middle of the bar. I did not believe he was going to help me for one second and he didn’t. It wobbled its way all the way down and back up to crash into place on the rack. RDH informed me I had another set to go.
Twenty minutes later and it was all over. RDH perused my record and pondered the possibility of further increases. I would have brained him with one of the dumbbells if I’d been able to lift it.
I then went inside to make dinner and brag on Facebook and discovered that I couldn’t wield enough strength to peel the carrots. Nor could I type. Not to worry, apparently I’m getting much stronger.
* "With me" implies that he does them too but I’m too weak, which means changing the weights over all the time, so he does his training with far tougher customers who are closer to his level like my brother-in-law Chris and our friend Big Jim. Perhaps a more accurate way of describing it is that he does weight training at me.
** Not crying and pleading for mercy.
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